If You Get Caught, You're Dead!
Inside the Jewish union office at the Fulton Fish Market, the union bosses had put their heads together at the request of Russo and Cardone, the Italian union chiefs.
"You spent all that time hammering the Romano brothers, and now you want us to brace for the LES gangs? Do you even know what outfit you're talking about?"
From the opening of the meeting the Irish side was already sideways. Robert McGrady, head of the unofficial Irish union and a man who had grown up working the Fulton Fish Market since he was a boy, tore into Russo and Cardone without mercy.
"Fuck off. Don't drag us into your little civil war. Even if they did come from outside—so what? What the hell do you want us to do about it?"
"Keep sitting on your hands like it's somebody else's problem and you'll pay for it, McGrady. If they start threatening the whole market, you think you can handle them alone?"
"I'd love for them to try. The second they touch us, those bastards will learn what a real price looks like."
Talking to a brick wall must feel exactly like this. Every time Russo had to trade words with the simple, thick-skulled McGrady, he felt like he couldn't breathe. Cardone was just as stifled. Unlike Russo, though, he eased the frustration by silently imagining carving McGrady into ribbons a few hundred times with a knife.
That was when Saul Goldman, the Jewish representative who had been listening in silence, cut in.
"This might be a separate issue, but you all know there was an attempt not long ago to seize control of the port unions here."
A Jew out of the Russian Empire, Saul Goldman was a calculating operator who had stacked his fortune through business and loan-sharking side by side. He was so sharp about the angles that people had nicknamed him "the Brain of Fulton."
"Why the sudden talk about the port unions?"
"Think about who was leading that push."
The market unions had always extended their reach to the docks right next door. Then the labor slugger Dopey Benny Fein had suddenly appeared and started eyeing Piers 15, 16, and 17—the ones pressed right up against the Fulton Fish Market.
And who was Dopey? A labor slugger who, after getting out of prison, had lost his power, been shoved aside by Johnny Spanish and Kid Dropper, and been reduced to running shirtwaist factories.
"Come to think of it, every one of them came out of the Five Points Gang."
Cardone tossed the observation out; Saul nodded.
"The port unions and the gangs have always been tangled up tight. Nothing strange there. The only reason Dopey locked down the East River port unions so fast is because a gang was propping him up from behind."
"So you're saying the Five Points is mixed up in this latest mess?"
McGrady's question drew a shake of Saul's head.
"Look at the timing of Dopey's comeback from the garment factories. It lines up exactly with the new gang that's been rising out of LES."
The death of Five Points boss Itchy Joe. After that, the sudden ascent of a new LES outfit.
"You're saying it's connected to the Union?"
"It's more than worth suspecting. Dopey tried to take the port unions and we stopped him. Not long after that, this happens. You think that's a coincidence?"
It was the kind of razor analysis you expected from the Brain of Fulton—far more persuasive than the theory that the Romano brothers had simply brought outsiders in. And Saul and Dopey were both Jewish; the odds that Saul had picked up information somewhere were high.
"If what you're saying is true, then we ought to answer this as a whole market, don't you think?"
Russo casually cast the Union as the market's enemy. But the simple-minded McGrady still treated the Union like a joke.
"Idiots. They can stay buried in LES. Who the hell do they think they are, swaggering around here? Tell them to come. I'll smash them to pieces."
How long did they have to sit and listen to McGrady's ignorant noise? Saul's brow tightened; he no longer felt like continuing the talks.
"It was only my speculation. Let's watch the situation a little longer."
"So the meeting's over, then?"
Saul, Russo, and Cardone exchanged looks. McGrady left first, leaving only the three of them in the room.
Cardone's voice turned cold.
"What do you say we get rid of that idiot McGrady soon? The three of us together—we could do it."
"I understand the urge, but that would only make everything bigger. You forget the Ice War two years ago?"
A war for monopoly over the ice business. Irish, Italian, and Jewish factions had fought so viciously over it that dozens had been hurt or killed. What had really blown the thing up was the gangs getting involved. The Irish had brought in the White Hand from Brooklyn; the Italians had called on the Neapolitan and Sicilian gangs. The relatively weaker Jewish side had scraped together every LES thug they could find and thrown them into the fight.
"And what was the result?"
In exchange for dragging the gangs in, they had nearly lost the entire market to them. While they were busy clawing at each other over ice, the gangs had come within a hair of swallowing the market whole. Just to keep that from happening, they had poured tens of thousands of dollars in bribes into Tammany Hall. They had succeeded in driving the gangs back outside the market—but the bleeding had been catastrophic.
"Calling them in is easy. Getting the gangs back out is hard."
If they didn't want to repeat the same disaster, they had to settle this from the inside. Saul spoke to the other two like a man delivering a warning.
"We watch. If they make another move, we talk then. But under no circumstances do we bring outside forces in."
"I don't have the slightest intention of doing that."
"Same here."
Yet the moment Cardone stepped out of the meeting room, he quietly asked Russo:
"You know why Saul's so careful about this?"
"Because of exactly what he said, no?"
"Sure, bringing gangs in is dangerous. He's not wrong. But honestly, the Jewish side has nobody left to lean on. Eastman fell apart, and they don't have a gang they can really count on."
Even the multi-ethnic Five Points had effectively collapsed. Meanwhile the Sicilian and Neapolitan Italian crews and the Irish White Hand still carried serious weight.
"That's why Saul is terrified of outside forces. His position isn't like ours."
"What are you getting at, Cardone?"
"When the chance comes, we fold the Jewish side under us. Not right away, of course."
His greed has no bottom.
That was why Russo never trusted Cardone. The man would put a knife in your back the second he saw an opening.
"Auction's starting soon. I'll head over first."
"See you later, Russo."
Cardone watched Russo's retreating back and let the corner of his mouth curl up.
That coward is the king of Fulton Market?
It was enough to make a dog laugh.
Cardone's plan was already in motion. The first button had been allying with Russo to smash the union the Romano brothers had anchored. Alliances, partnerships—he had used the balance of power with cold precision. From here he would simply keep eliminating them one by one the same way, until he was the last man standing over New York's greatest fish market.
"I'll become the true king of Fulton Market…!"
Thud.
Someone slammed hard into his shoulder. Cardone scowled—and the other man's reaction was even more outrageous.
"Fuck, watch where you're walking, asshole. I'm busy as hell."
"What? You little—"
Before Cardone could even clench a fist, the bastard had already swaggered off on his way. Once he melted into the crowd, catching up wasn't easy.
You're dead if I catch you!
In that brief instant Cardone burned the man's face and the back of his head into memory.
After midnight the stalls never stopped. Workers packed ice into wooden crates and layered fresh fish on top.
"Just off the boat—fresh cod!"
"Top-grade oysters straight from Long Island!"
Italian, Irish-accented English, and a dozen other immigrant tongues tangled into the market's unique language, ringing out on every side. Restaurant men, hotel buyers, and fishmongers from every corner of the city bargained hard for the day's best catch. Merchants clutched greasy paper in both hands, cigarettes dangling from their lips, shouting their wares at customers. While the city slept, the market burned at its hottest. Workers hauled heavy ice crates, careful not to slip on the wet floors as they moved sold goods toward the wagons and trucks parked around the market. While the wholesale bosses watched the vehicles, their crews loaded them with seafood and produce piled high from somewhere. Only when the beds were full did the night's work end.
Cardone wasn't always glued to his stall. When a big regular wholesale buyer showed up, he would walk out to the truck himself and work the sales talk.
"Essex Market's cutthroat these days. We're killing ourselves just to match the unit price. Do me a solid on the numbers if you can."
"I wouldn't leave anything for anyone else, but for a fellow Neapolitan? Come on. You know I eat the loss sometimes and don't even mention it."
"I know, I know. By the way—you catch the sons of bitches who wrecked your place?"
Cardone shook his head hard.
"The bastards haven't shown their faces since that day."
"I heard it was LES gangs. Want me to put you in touch with the Camorra if it comes to that?"
"Their situation's not great these days."
Sicilian gangs were the Mafia; Neapolitan gangs were the Camorra. Early that year the Camorra leadership had been convicted one after another in court, and their power had shrunk fast. Cardone had already put his chips on a different table. Even though he wasn't Sicilian, Frankie Yale—now head of the Sicilian combine—was the solid backer behind him.
Right now Sicily is the side with the momentum, not Naples.
What did birthplace matter? Immediate profit came first.
Cardone was still turning other thoughts over when he spotted the bastard who had shoulder-checked him and then acted like a king. The man was cutting between the trucks some distance away. Third time now. Every previous pass through the market the guy had slipped away before Cardone could follow.
Not this time.
"Mog, something just came up."
"We see each other every day. Go handle it, Cardone."
After a quick goodbye Cardone's stride lengthened. A gaff hook—a sharp hook fixed to the end of an iron bar—caught his eye. He closed his hand around it and went after his target.
Looking for a place to take a piss, maybe. The man was holding the front of his pants, glancing around, then ducking into a shadowed corner.
Even better.
The moon was buried behind clouds. Cardone gripped the gaff hook and kept his footsteps as quiet as he could, trailing the man into the dark along the warehouses.
Ssssss.
The sound of piss hitting the ground grew closer, and Cardone's mouth curved up.
He would bury the hook in the body and drag the bastard around.
Just imagining it sent a delicious shiver through him. Both hands on the hook, he rounded the corner—and there was the stream of urine. Then—
Thuk.
Something punched into his throat. Heat flared as if he had been branded. His eyes flew wide as he stared at the other man. A blond man casually lifted a water jug high and poured it out onto the ground with a soft splash.
Then he whispered:
"Good-bye."
Thuk. Thuk.
Every time the blade sank into his gut and came free, blood sprayed. Cardone's knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground.
Who the hell are you…
The retreating back grew blurrier. His vision was going dark at terrifying speed. With the last of his strength Cardone forced his fingers to move. To ease the injustice even a little, he dragged those blood-smeared fingers across the ground.
In the final moments before death he left the one clue burned into his memory of the killer:
After I finished the job I walked back into the market. That easy confidence was all thanks to Ida. The apron was rubber, so the blood wiped off clean. Even if any of it had stayed, nobody would have given me a second look. To them I was just another fish-shop worker wandering the market.
I strolled past Cardone's stall. His crew was still busy working, none the wiser. Next came the Romano brothers' fish shop. Cardone was the one who had died, yet this place already felt like a funeral. Not a single customer in sight; they just sat in the gloom chain-smoking.
My eyes met Vito Romano's again. This time he stared at me longer. Then:
"What the hell are you looking at, asshole? Enjoying the show?"
"…"
I considered just taking him out too while I was at it. Lanza poured gasoline on that particular fire.
"Get lost, punk! I'll gouge those eyes out!"
Deep irritation aside, I was freshly reminded how valuable a wig could be. Up close it might not hold, but at working distance it hid me perfectly. If a cheap off-the-rack piece worked this well, a custom-made toupee would look even more real.
I finally understood J. Edgar Hoover completely. Except—
"Why the cross-dressing, though?"
I decided I would dig into that secret someday and left the market.
By the time I stuffed the wig into my bag and tossed the apron into the harbor, the body had apparently been found. Commotion rolled through the Fulton Fish Market.